Tony Spark
by Doodled93
Summary: Avengers/Iron Man cross with RotG. Tony Stark died at 20, 1957 protecting his parents from the electrical discharge of a reactor exploding. He wakes, remembers, and when the Moon whispers to him, Tony Spark, he frowns. "How about no." Where Tony is the spirit of innovation and won't let a thing like death and not being able to be seen or heard or felt hold him back from his life
1. Chapter 1

Tony Spark

Thing is, he remembers exactly how he died.

In exacting detail.

He remembers all of his life, actually. Just something new. Ish.

Full HD, rewind, play, pause, rewind, play, pause, Fast-forward, pause, rewind.

And that means…

He knows exactly how he died.

Past tense, yes.

Died.

Rewind.

May 29th, 1937, Anthony Stark was born. Two years later, the War did.

He thinks it's rather appropriate, that just as he's reaching that important point in every infants life where cognitive function starts kicking it up into high gear, suddenly there's violence everywhere. It continues.

Becomes the norm.

He's five, the oops his father had learned to deal with through occasional visits and paying for not-his-biological-mother-but-might-as-well-be best female friend to look after him on wages he gets making… anything. Everything. Knick knacks, cars, things with flashing lights… things that exploded with even more flashing lights.

When she needs a break, Tony is sat with his father as he pours over blueprints, and he learns his alphabet from the periodic table, learns his numbers from coding and labels on parts.

He's five when he meets Steve Rogers, and is entirely unimpressed.

Steve is earnest, and straightforward, and Tony can tell that he doesn't understand when his father goes into the Details. He remembers, at that age, dismissing anyone who couldn't understand the Details. Steve gets credit for not getting that dopey glazed look on his face, but all that means to Tony-at-5 is that he can hang around his dad without much scorn from Tony.

One day, Steve crouches to Tony's level, his uniform rumpling slightly, and asks why he doesn't show the same respect—or lack of open hostility—to Colonel Phillips as he does to Steve. As he does to Peggy.

Tony scrunches his nose at him. "Because you didn't get a stupid face when my dad talked to you."

And, when Steve kept looking concerned and confused, Tony sighed.

"Because when dad started talking about the Details to you, you looked confused, but you didn't get that stupid glazed look on your face that just about everyone else does."

"I didn't understand half of what your dad said though. Still don't, not really."

Tony shook his head and turned back to the old car blueprints he'd borrowed from a desk. "Less than that, yeah, but at least you listened." He paused, and then snorted. "Colonel Chester listened to somethin' like 40 seconds of my dad, and then said something stupid like 'as long as it works', and stopped listening. People who find themselves in a position to _think_ they have power tend to do that." He looked Steve in the eyes, and said "You see, he doesn't get it. The people who get all stupid faced don't get it. It doesn't matter if something _works_. It doesn't even matter if it doesn't work. What matters, is _why_. Why does or doesn't it work? You need to know the details, so you can use it, make it better, move forward with it. Move forward, _past_ it." His tone turns abruptly fond, "Dad's always doing that."

He was interrupted from saying anything else by an exclamation from the other side of the work station, and he hurried to roll up the car plans in front of him, because not all of the scientists and engineers (read: none) appreciated Tony borrowing from their desks.

His last bit of wisdom for Steve was a grin and a wink—

"Be the spark Cap! If you're not moving forward, you're getting in the way!"

—before running off as fast as his little legs could take him, arms full of military vehicle plans.

Getting scolded by his dad was bad, later, but better when Tony pointed out a flaw in the dummy's calculations, especially since he could smirk without getting pinched for his cheek.

The small smile he saw on Steve's face only made his own smirk grow larger.

Even so, he hoped Steve didn't think this made them friends or anything.

Pause.

Fast-forward.

Play.

Steve is missing, Captain America gone, and his dad has gone into a full blown obsessive compulsive jerk around.

Tony doesn't get it.

His dad is fantastic, and makes a better and more accurate sonar, better submarines, better ships, better equipment, makes lights that shine on the ocean floor for miles…

And then just stops.

Tony knows he's got projects on the backburner, ones he could be working on immediately, but he's off insisting he be part of this or that search party when he could be working on them.

But, as Tony gets older, graduates before any other kid his age is even thinking beyond their next pop quiz, beyond the on-again-never-really-off-again war, he does not understand this.

He sees his dad's projects, and sees that if they were taken one step further, they could help find Steve goddamn Rogers. Why was his dad looking for this guy now, on his time, when he could be making better, more efficient ways to find the guy!?

Oh don't get him wrong he understands the friendship. He gets it. He doesn't remember much about the guy (at that point)beyond that he didn't get blank faced when his dad talked science. That he was a friendly guy. That he made Auntie Peg happy when he was around.

That he'd been there when his dad hadn't been turning more and more to alcohol.

Again, don't get him wrong, reverse-engineering his dad's drunk inventing was a hoot, very insightful, very engaging. But his dad was going around in circles. Going in pinwheels, really. Forward, tilt-tilt-tilt back tilt-tilt-tilt forwards. Rinse. Repeat.

And the crossing points were always names Steve Rogers.

And God forbid Tony be allowed to help out at all in the search.

Psssh. He kept in mind that the guy was a _good guy_, because if he ever forgot he might start to hate him. Already didn't like him because his absence was turning his dad into an alcoholic in an inventing tailspin.

Fucking Rogers.

Pause. Rewind—play.

At the start of his father's tailspin, Tony was already in the family business. Where his father made the big guns (sometimes literally), Tony was programming. Tony was making smaller things. Had, in the works, a way to communicate long distances through smaller devices, ones that weren't hooked up to anything at all, and wasn't a freaking walkie.

Made appliances, made smaller, more efficient batteries, made cars, made planes, made so, so, so many engines.

Where his dad makes contracts with the military, Tony sets him up for a company that means if and when the military stops showing favour, they'll still have the funding to move forward.

Fast-forward.

Tony has an idea.

A great, great big fucking idea.

It's the first step to working on, and finishing several other ideas, but he hadn't realized how so many of them could be linked up until this one big idea.

It was gonna be huge.

He says as much to his father.

"Weren't you working on a way to make batteries _smaller_?"

"This one will have to be big, for how much power will be running through it. It could power all of the States for a year. Maybe less in a few years time, considering how much more electricity we're already using, but still."  
"A year? All of the US? Ton I don't have time for this nonsense—"

There was a huge rustling of paper as Tony whipped out his tentative plans, a rough outline of what _could_ be, of what _would_ be with the right amount of attention.

His dad went gratifyingly silent.

"Much easier to search the ocean floor when you don't have to worry about the power," he says quietly.

It's not what Tony was looking to use this for, but if it went right, it could be used for _anything_.

It could be used for _everything_.

Fast-forward.

_Burning— his nerves were on fire— singing— screaming— the smell of burnt _hair_— the smell of burnt _flesh_—he was cooking from the inside out—_

Pause.

Rewind.

Play.

Tony's 20th birthday went largely unnoticed, except by Maria Stark (who his father had finally noticed was a woman, and intelligent, and brilliant, and thankfully married when he was 9), and, of course, the rest of the world.

If she hadn't pulled him from the lab, he wouldn't have even noticed that another day had gone past, and they have cake and doughnuts and flapjacks for dinner, in true Stark tradition, just as his dad stays working through it, in true Stark tradition.

The rest of the world waited with baited breath to see if any of the Starks would make it into a huge blowout, if it was going to be Tony or Howard who drunkenly made his way into the tabloids—not knowing that there were other things to focus on.

They almost had the first model finished. One month—less than one month, and they would have it finished.

Finished.

Tony hoped it worked.

Hoped it _didn't_ work.

He hadn't worked uninterrupted with his father like this since—

Never mind.

Less than one month.

They leave a slice of cake and a doughnut next to his dads workstation, and head to the library.

Another tradition.

As much family time as possible..

Fast-forward.

12 days.

Fast-forward.

6 days.

Fast-forward.

8 days—"I didn't know the damn thing was going to explode!"

Fast-forward.

3 days.

Fast-forward.

Tony rechecked the distance between the inner and outer layers, carrying the tape all the way around to make sure that there was an even 13.7 inches all the way around, no variations, no chips or divots.

Behind him, to the left, in front of him, around, Howard Stark confirms the calculations, checks the output valves, and smooths his moustache.

Maria Stark stand back, watching with sunglasses in hand.

"It'll be great," he had told her, "the best thing I've ever made," and she had gone out and bought them.

"So I don't get blinded by your brilliance," she said afterwards.

The ring was in place, the customized crane ready to lower it equidistant from the inner and outer layers, and then it was ready.

The switch was turned, and Tony can't stay still. Has to move, eyes fixed to where history was being remade, and he doesn't even have room in his head to think about what else this'll mean to—well, everyone else.

Tony grew up always having eyes on him, from the military to the media and public as the Stark name became a _thing_, and when the newspapers weren't getting people into a panic over the war they were getting their jollies by dishing out every little thing the Starks were doing.

But he'd never felt like the whole world was holding it's breath for this, and he thinks he understands how his dad felt when turning Steven Rogers into the Super soldier Captain America.

Five feet, three, two, one, 3/5ths, 5/9ths, it gets closer and closer to the space it should be, and Tony sees when it's nearing 5 inches to where it should be that the ring is… slightly off.

On anything else, it wouldn't matter, but this thing here… this would be bad. It'd be horrible.

He has a moment to doubt—what if he's wrong? It should work fine, right? A little jostling shouldn't be an issue, right?—before sense knocks into him, and he's running back to his parents, "FUCKING STOP IT NOW!" because of course he's right.

His mother turns to him, a slightly shocked and quizzical smile on her face, his father just looks bewildered, but he doesn't get his hand to the fucking controls in time.

His parents are on the raised rubber platform, and in the few seconds between his shout and the charged hum of the reactor getting ready for a horrific electrical discharge, Tony thinks.

_Be the spark_, he'd once told Steve, _if you don't move forward, you're in the way_. His mom had always told him that he'd been the brightest spark in her life, and he'd taken that and turned it into his life's motto, because you had to move forward. If you stayed still, you'd wallow in unproductive thoughts and questions like why your father doesn't seem to care, or why couldn't he be more like the other kids, because it was a big thing for him to realize as a kid that he shouldn't have to hold back.

That he _didn't_ have to hold back.

He could move forward as fast as he wanted.

He was the spark that ignited the fire, he was the spark that started the car, he was—he could be the spark to a whole new freaking world.

But even with this healthily and reasonably inflated sense of self worth, Tony also knew that you didn't _mow down_ people in your way to move forward. And this was his idea, and he wasn't going to let it mow down his parents. His father was an insensitive dick, and his mother could be incredibly vapid sometimes, but they were his, they were important to him, and this was his idea. His responsibility.

They were on the rubber platform, but Tony wasn't. They'd still likely get hit, even with no metal on them, of only because they were in the way… unless the electricity had a more appealing target.

Well, one of Tony's greatest qualities was how attractive he could be.

He grabbed a metal wrench from where it was nearby, and he can feel the cackle of electricity as he picks up the first metal rod that comes to hand, and hurls himself front and center.

His heart pounded, and he had a moment of regret, but—

Everything exploded.

Pause. Fast forward.

Fast forward.

And that was how he died.

That was a couple of days ago, and apparently his body is still too electrically charged for anyone to move it, or touch it, or even go into the freaking room, because he wakes up alone with only his body for company.

He knows he died, and that's distracting, but so is this.

Electrocution is not a pleasant way to go.

When he wakes up from dying to find that technology _sings_ around him, electricity _dancing through him_, and his head is just as full of ideas as it was before his death—even more so, now that he can apparently review his life and death in exacting detail—he marvels.

Electrocution is not a pleasant way to go, but this—whatever it is; well it's certainly a nice way to come back.

In seconds he's travelled through each and every piece of equipment around him, and around the house, and outside, all in blinks and microseconds, and he's outside hanging—he's fucking _flying_ using the electromagnetic differences in the fucking _earth_!—and the moon is peeking through the clouds, huge and ordinary except that Tony can feel that there's tech there. Far away, far, _far_ away, but there's tech on the moon, and it's old, and there's so much to be learned from it he just wants to reverse engineer the whole thing—

His thoughts are interrupted by a thought.

It's not his, and somehow he knows it's the moons—infers that he actually means it's _whoever_ is _on the moon_—but it's in his head anyway.

_Tony Spark_, it says.

Tony doesn't know what that means, and so puts it aside for the moment. Heads back down to ground, and goes through the electronic lock on the door to find his parents.

Dad is drinking, and beside him his mother is crying, and it abruptly hits him that oh, right, he died, and it hits him again when instead of making contact his hand just fazes through his mother's shaking shoulder.

_Tony Spark_, the moon whispers in his mind, again, and he bristles.

"Fuck _that_," he says in response, because he fucking gets what's trying to happen, and he's _not fucking dealing with it_, and the monitors and coding boards that dominated his fathers room come to life.

Maria, _his mother_, shrieks, and Howard, _his father_, looks up with eyes only slightly muzzy with alcohol.

**NOT DEAD** he writes, has displayed in words, in coding, in fucking Morse code, on every screen.

His mother whimpers, a dying sound deep in her throat, and new tears well up.

His father says nothing.

Tony thinks of the one thing that would get his mother to believe, and looks to the ceiling, through it to the great looming glow of the moon.

He was sure there were rules to this, and he was probably breaking all of them, but Tony grew up knowing that rules were for people who couldn't think of a way around them.

People couldn't see him, hear him, feel his touch, so he was going to stop being Tony Fucking Stark?

He glared, and the lights flickered. Electricity fills his eyes, and his grin is sharp enough to cut diamonds.

"Fuck. That. Shit."

The words on the monitors shift.

**THIS SPARK HAS NOT GONE OUT. **

TBC

_Ok, so Captain America (movie) happened in 1942 from what I've found, Howard's 29 and Tony's 5 when he meets Steve (in this 'verse). Or just has a talk with him. Whatever. So when Tony dies, he's 20 and it's 1957. With me?_

_Apparently canon Tony Stark was born May 29__th__, 1970, and that works, but c'mon. Robert Downey Jr. at 20 is freaking adorable. So no deep reason for the age difference, and I just like the idea of a toddler Tony giving sass to all the military people for not understanding his dad, and just like making everyone frustrated by stealing plans and correcting calculations and whatnot. I'm not saying he's like a supergenius child or anything, but he graduated MIT at 15 in most canon, guys. C'mon guys. You know he'd have been a clever little shit when he was a kid._

_And yeah, this is the beginning to my little idea for a Rise Of The Guardians/Avengers/Iron Man cross._

_Can you se where I'm going? Yes? No? Maybe?_

_Bah, I've been working on this on and off trying to get past a block with It's Green (Harry Potter) and in Too Tired To Wink (Torchwood, sequel to And I Wake Up), and am going to go work on them now._

_Let me know what you think, and if you have any questions that I don't feel will spoil anything, I'll answer them._

**~Doodled93~**


	2. Chapter 2

_*shrugs* so each chapter's going o be roughly 7 pages?_

_Let me know what you think._

Chapter 2—Steps Along the Way

It isn't as difficult as Tony had feared it would be to get his parents on the same page.

It's much more difficult even getting them on the same freaking _book_, however, and they still can't see him. He doesn't know if he'll ever be seen.

He shrugs, and puts that thought aside.

Howard had tried to delete him as a virus, at first, and there had been talk from Maria about getting a priest into the building for an exorcism, but Tony hadn't known them for his entire life for nothing.

He didn't think his dad believed that he was really, fully his son, but Tony's knowledge and willingness to work seemed to be enough.

But his mother believes, at least.

He thinks it might be because it's just easier to believe than it is to face the fact that he died.

As it is, nothing much changes around the Stark household…

Only now Tony appears more absent than even Howard.

Only now, to fight that appearance, there was now some sort of monitor or screen in every part of the house.

Life moved on.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tony likes Jarvis.

Retired from the British RAF, and champion boxer for three years running, his move to the US of A was timed perfectly.

The guy is hired to 'look after Tony', and as the world at large is under the impression that an accident has damaged Tony Stark enough that he's refusing to address the public, it's hard to argue with that.

The guy is maybe a year older than Howard was, hair receding a bit more, certainly, and Tony gives him a month to get into the hang of things, of getting used to the run of the house while his parents took hold of the public aspect of the company, before deciding to let him in on the little secret.

The reason, he'll reflect later, that he decides to keep Jarvis on as a permanent caretaker, is because instead of freaking out or going into complete denial over everything, Jarvis simply looks around the monitor room that Tony had laid claim on, and said, "I suppose this means I won't have to clean up after you like your father."

When Tony stayed silent from surprise, the man raised an eyebrow at the monitors.  
"What with the lack of body, sir?"

Honestly, the guy was a _hoot_.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The world grows, and technology with it, and Tony can go farther, go faster, see so much more, and he loves it.

He's got more toys to work with, he's got more people to connect with as more and more communication shifts technologically, and he's there with his dad making things in a way he's never been able to do before.

Tony doesn't really need sleep—when he goes too fast, gets too immersed in the tech around him and pushes beyond their current abilities, his head gets a bit overheated, and there tend to be power outages besides—and that leaves him time to move forward.

Stark Industries experienced a bit of a stock drop when Tony suddenly disappeared from the social scene, when he seemed to suddenly shift from social butterfly to more-than-proverbial-hermitage, but he'd let just enough of the accident to be released that most people think he's hiding because of scars and possibly the inability to walk.

Stocks go up after that possibility gets leaked, as there are quite a few quadriplegics and amputees around, and Tony's name is on almost two thirds of the patents, and it's a weird mash-up of flack for not 'standing up' for himself and going on with his life, and kudos for pumping out even more of what was being referred to as StarkTech despite his supposed injuries.

Tony starts looking into the making and manufacturing of synthetic limbs out of curiosity, and finds that in most cases there's not much being done.

Wheelchairs are getting better, better cushioning against the severed limbs being replaced is getting looked into, and yet Tony looks at the designs and thinks, _I could do better. _

And the spark of an idea niggles at the back of his mind.

Lieutenant Greg Mattheson has lost his left leg almost all the way to the hip, and after he's given permission, Tony has his people sent to the hospital to take measurements.

Measurements of his remaining leg, of how big his foot is, the distance between his hip to heel, hip to the top of his knee, hip to the bottom of his knee, distance from the tips of his toes to his knee, measurements around his ankle, calf, thigh, knee…

Mattheson takes all the pictures and measuring with some bemusement, and when Tony needs more measurements later it's just as much of a laugh for him and his fellow amputees the second time around.

The third time around there's slightly less laughter, and more stunned silence, as Jarvis shows up with much of the same team to present a functioning mechanical limb to the Lieutenant.

Tony is glad that he likes it, is glad that he's started up a department devoted to this, to looking into more efficient and useful prosthetics, but thinks it could be better.

Even as he watches the man sit for a mold to be taken of his stump—the last step (ha) towards getting him on his feet (ha)—he thinks that the shape could be better, it could be shifted to take weight better, it could be shifted to be lighter with different materials, the pressure points that should allow for some independent movement in the limb—the ones that had required he sit in on a few physiotherapy courses just to see quite how pressure in that part of the leg were meant to react—could be more efficient…

He thinks and he thinks and he thinks about all the ways it could go better, and then he sees a man looking at the slightly staggering Lieutenant with some awe and envy, and sends a message to Jarvis's pager that he should ask the other man—ironically Colonel Connor Armitage—if measurements could be taken of and about his arm.

The idea grows in his mind.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Tony figures out a voice-modulating software right about the same time as his dad hits a slump.

Howard had so many ideas, but not too many ways to connect them, no idea where to start on them, and despite having looked at them himself Tony was stumped as well.

He's working on the vocal-software because he has an idea on the go, but t doesn't have anything do to with anything important. They still get funding form the military to make weapons, and for a while that seemed to make them happy, but stress form the war was… well. It just wasn't that great at getting the creative juices flowing.

Civil war or otherwise, war wasn't great.

Tony didn't have to worry about much himself—no need for food, hardly any need for sleep, and he'd already gotten that dying business out of the way, and that cut out disease from the equation—but that didn't meant that it wasn't still going on for everyone else.

But there are only so many ways to make a thing that shot out bullets, especially with how short on materials everyone was.

What materials they did have were needed by the Other Guys, and vice versa, and Howard wouldn't be getting many more chances to go searching for Rogers if things continued.

Tony sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He kind of hoped his software was even remotely close to a stage where he could just finish up a few parts and be able to have real(ish) conversations with people again, because he loved his mom but sometimes she didn't know quite what to say to get him to snap out of his funks.

Howards eyes started straying towards the liquor cabinet, mind obviously shifting courses, and Tony scowled, "C'mon dad, you can have booze on the brain _later_," and swiped a hand in his direction. It wouldn't connect, and it would leave his hand feeling a bit chilled, but he needed to feel like he was showing his disapproval in some way—

"YEOWCH!"

His hand did pass through Howard's head, mostly clipping through his ear, and he'd jerked back like he's been shocked.

Eyes wide and looking around, rubbing his ear, Howard didn't see Tony's flailing, because he did not mean to do that, not that it wasn't neat and reassuring that he could still interact with people, but he didn't want it to be quite so shocking.

But Tony did see when his confused searching suddenly stilled, eyes going focused—not on Tony, but focused inwards—and some idea obviously took root in his brain because he immediately pulled a sheet of paper closer, and started writing.

Confused himself now, Tony peered over his shoulder at the equations, and just watched for a few minutes.

When what Howard was thinking started to take form on the paper, Tony's eyes widened, and a grin slowly grew on his face.

"Oh," he murmurs, baring his teeth, "that is brilliant. That is fucking _brilliant_."

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He keeps an eye on the project—something that seemed very similar to the wonders of Captain Nemo's vessel, minus library—Tony has to keep most of his attention everywhere else.

Experimenting, Tony had tried swiping a hand through various people's head to no real effect, except in a few cases he's come to refer to as the 'Eureka's.

If someone's focusing on something, or actually doing something steadily, the head-swipey thing doesn't work. If they're dazed or looking off into the distance, or slowing down in what they're doing, or even remotely distracted, it's got a 60% chance of happening.

Once he'd narrowed down the variables, he'd tried it on a rough hundred people of varying ages, he also figured out that it helps if he knows the sort of person they are. Or at least what they're interested in. But it doesn't matter much.

The thing is, apparently when he punches people through the head, they have a little over half a chance of getting inspiration for something. Usually something good. He's usually impressed when he sticks around the Science guys and engineering groups, but he's impressed too when one lady rushes to go and get her paints out, and hey, he wasn't a huge artsy guy, but he could appreciate it.

It was also nice to see that he and his dad hadn't been the only ones to go rushing off when they had an idea, sometimes (many times) ignoring food, water, and rest in order to get all the thoughts out.

So now he has a reason to get out of what is turning into the most technologically advanced sub-basement at least in the USA, and he's not so arrogant to think that it's his head-punching that seems to knock productivity and innovative technology to a higher gear, but he's sure he's done enough to earn a pat on his back.

In the papers he hears about new tech somewhere in Russia, something that might kick his voice modulating gear to the level he needs, so he leaves a couple of messages for his mom (calling her Maria in case the message was intercepted), and setting it up in code on his dad's computer—he was much more likely to read that than the written word.

And he's off.

Instead of taking hours upon hours, the trip takes him maybe 30 minutes.

He thinks he could have gotten it down to 20, but there was an entire section of the map that had practically no tech beyond a crotchety radio tower, and he'd actually had to fly to get past that part.

Well—he said fly, but it was all about the magnetic and electric currents in the air and in the earth and really all you needed to know about it was that it was actually really fun and he was probably just going to fly back on his own.

He's going faster than a plane anyway—maybe not as fast as jumping from one bit of tech to another, riding on power lines, but still. Pretty fucking fast.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

A rough week later (Russia was BIG, and there wasn't all that much digital information out there to go on… yet), and Tony had a working model in his head. It may sound cocky to say so, but yeah it was a working model, and putting it together would be the matter of a few hours at most.

The trip home took him two hours, but that's because he flew most of the way there, and he immediately gets to work.

Parts jumping to meet his fingers, electricity sparking, he grins.

He'll _tell_ his parents he's back once he's finished.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

"Hey I'm ba—ooooookaaaay that's a bit too high, too high, too high, lower, loooowwwer, maaaayyybe a bit too low so where… hey mom? This voice is a bit too high, right? I'm more of a baritone… hmm, hmm, HMMMMMMMMMM okay, sounds about right? Right. Well, I'm back, got what I needed, and look! Or rather don't look, listen! I can talk and you can hear me, and that's a big difference—mom. Mom. You can't cry right now mom. Mom. Maria Stark, what did you always tell me about how society women didn't let their mascara run, and now you're— … I haven't figured out how to make this thing sigh quite yet, but that's what I just did. Mom. Really, yes, I love you too—didn't quite believe that I wasn't, you know, really dead, right? Well then—yes mom. I love you too. I'm here—I'm not in the machine, I'm just making it talk, I can't actually feel those hug—nevermind, of course I do! Yes, I love you. Please stop crying."

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Realization shifts the first time Tony sees Santa Clause—well, technically it shifted the first time he felt something that was some mix of tech and other stuff, but he didn't realize it was freaking Saint Nick until he flew up above the trees to investigate.

And then it was a game of _what doesn't belong with this image_.

He'd like to say that the guy didn't exist any more now than he did when Tony was a kid, but it's hard to say that with any certainty when a guy (chubby, red suit, white beard, _tattoos, swords_) speeds past on a sleigh (festively coloured, filled with bags of toys, equipped with _highly developed monitors and aerial equipment and various other tech_) pulled by reindeers (fuzzy, flying, _pointy antlers and hooves flailing at dangerous speeds_) on Christmas Eve.

He stares after it, blinking. "Huh."

And takes a picture.

The thing he was finding was that with every bit of tech he developed, with every upgrade and modification that made things run faster, farther, better, it was like he was upgrading his brain along with it. Shivers up his spine, the lightheaded feeling of alcohol mixing with the euphoria of figuring out a problem, and BAM he was finding more things he could do.

So when he said he took a picture, he wasn't saying he was pulling a huge camera out and setting it up and taking a picture that would then have to be developed and set up, no, he was saying he consciously decided to rewind a bit in his head and send that information to his set up in the basement, because _that was fucking Santa Clause delivering presents_, and _how the hell as this escaped everyone for so long_?

It was a commonly accepted untruth. A holiday focused on the birth of a guy who would have actually been born sometime in June historically, designed to get people to spend more money than they have to prove they love their family the most once a year.

Fucking Santa Clause.

Jarvis is cleaning up in the main control area—the only person outside of the family allowed down there—when Tony returns from staring blankly at where Santa Clause once was, and he pulls the pictures of Santa Clause up on every monitor, reexamining from every angle he can manage.

Jarvis, used to Tony abruptly changing the contents of the screens only looks up for a moment before going back to neatening everything. "Very nice, sir. The stars are particularly brilliant tonight."

Tony stares at him.

"Really. I show you a picture of _Santa Clause_ _on his sleigh_ and you appreciate the _stars_?"

He's about to have his audio program say a such when he pauses, thinks, and instead says, "What do you see in this screen?" highlighting the edges of the screen showing a side view of what was clearly Santa on his sleigh pulled by reindeer.

Jarvis straightens and peers at the screen. Through Tony's head, where he stands right in front of him, watching where his eyes focus—watching how his eyes don't focus where they should.

"Hmm, there's the large dipper, part of the small dipper, and what I believe is Orion's belt… I'm afraid astrology isn't my strong point, sir." He looks at the screens, eyebrows raised and waiting for Tony to either ask him something else or perhaps explain, but Tony doesn't have words for him right now.

He had pictures of the jolly fat man himself, and Jarvis's eyes had slid right past it. No focus.

His eyes slid through like he wasn't there.

He couldn't see him.

Couldn't see Saint Nick… like he couldn't see Tony?

Like he could look through Tony to see the screen?

Tony frowned.

Okay…

So what did Tony have in common with Santa Clause?

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

_Anyone see what Tony's idea's are all coalescing into possibly being?_


End file.
